Tuesday, June 13, 2017

June 13, 2017

Hard brief rain exempted me from watering the garden– which flourishes. Yellow calla in bloom; all new plantings seem to be prospering. Need at least one good day of epic weeding, one day when it’s not so hot. Rogue violets want to take over every inch of land. One loves them, but one must choose.

Accidentally poured hot oil from the frying pan onto my hand. It stung for five minutes and stopped. No redness. No swelling. I managed to pour the rest into a plastic cup, which melted instantly. I am praising Jesus.

Memorial service last night at O.Henry’s for the 49 people murdered in the Pulse club in Orlando exactly a year ago. Cantaria sang, and though I bitched about having to do it, I was glad I did, glad what was happening was happening. It was a sweet, sane event, and all around the city was blotted out and the only things visible were the green encircling hills.

I admit that I can’t quite get my head around “drag.” There were several drag queens present, in costumes which seemed to me attention-grabbing and therefore disrespectful. One adjective for the dress might be “extreme,” another “hideous.” And yet the word they want to have applied to themselves is “brave.” I know this because they say so. Aren’t we brave? Aren’t we courageous being “out there” and being ourselves? I don’t get it.  I might come closer to getting it if I believed that witch-harpy-satanic-diner waitress-Joan Crawford-flora dora girl was anybody’s authentic self. On those moments when I feel myself suppressing myself, it is to give others room to breathe, to allow space in the room for all egos. This concept is foreign to the drag queen. If someone says “too big” the impulse–never suppressed–is to go bigger. But sometimes too big is too big, merely the truth, a caution and not a tyranny. Nor can drag endure anything in its proximity that is not drag. After hearing about the fabulous deal one got on these fabulous heels for a solid twenty minutes, one mentions poetry or politics or some anecdote from real life and is met with eye-rolling and groans of “boring.” One friend valorizes his fashion sense by pointing out that he does drag, as though one thing were linked with the other. I want to say, “Drag is to fashion as video games are to adventure,” but I never think fast enough to work my wit in at the right moment. Maybe I’d think different if I didn’t look wretched in a dress.

Drinks and glad talk at the Indigo Bar. Flirting with the car valet.

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